Page 66 of Wicked Design
Chapter Seventeen
Clover woke up groggy, her head throbbing. So much for opting out of booze last night to gorge on chocolate milk. She rolled over and bumped into a pillow rather than Van Gogh. He wasn’t anywhere out here. The light in her john was on, the door open. She staggered to it and clutched the jamb.
Moisture clung to the shower walls and curtain. Her cucumber soap scented the small area. His whiskers and shaving cream ringed the sink. He’d used her Venus disposable razor and left it in water next to a glob of Aquafresh. The new toothbrush she kept as a spare perched precariously against the soap dish, her facial bar submerged in a slimy puddle.
She turned off the light and shivered at the frigid air. He’d set her window unit on sixty degrees. After jacking it up to eighty, she grabbed her smartphone. Past two p.m. He had to be at work but hadn’t left any voicemails or texts for her. She padded to the table. Her jewelry lay in a heap to one side, her clothes on the other. No note, though, to tell her when he’d left or if he’d be back.
She threw her phone and covered her face. For him to fuck up her bathroom, leave the light on, and burn too much electricity with the air conditioner was one thing. Not even bothering to wake her to say goodbye or leave a message totally sucked. He’d never been so thoughtless before. Always he’d seen to her needs as she’d done with his, and she wanted that back. She wasn’t made of stone. Dammit, she loved him.
After one freaking night with people who were too stupid to live, he acted like she didn’t exist any longer, except to crash here, eat, or maybe fuck. They hadn’t even done that. So what if Trinity, Peaches, Shell, and the other fools had fawned over him? They should. What guy was hotter, more talented, funnier, or had lived through the abuse he had when all he’d wanted to do was be himself and paint?
She slumped against the fridge.
No wonder he’d lost his head after those jerks had treated him nicely. Drunk with success, power, or whatever the crap he’d felt, he hadn’t been himself. The Van Gogh she knew wouldn’t have used her toiletries, failed to clean up after himself, then breezed to work, not caring what a dick he’d been.
She wasn’t perfect, either. In middle and high school she warned her folks not to attend parent-teacher meetings or even think about going to her school plays or extracurricular events. Didn’t matter that they’d be clothed and promised not to mention the naturist community. They embarrassed her with their lifestyle. Being funky was one thing. Weird was unacceptable. Wasn’t until she’d been away at the jewelry design institute that she’d missed them enough to forgive their failings, as they had hers.
She couldn’t do any less with Van Gogh. Debating what she’d say to him, she yanked open the refrigerator.
He’d eaten the one hard-boiled egg she had left and finished all but a mouthful of her apple juice.
She slammed the door and checked the cupboard for food.
The Hostess cupcakes were gone. He’d bought them as a surprise for her when she gave him the black shirt.
She gripped the counter and forced herself to breathe deeply. The calming exercise did zip to dispel her irritation. She called him, got voicemail, then tapped the parlor number.
“Hey, Clover.” Jasmina. “How are you?”
She’d never been as hurt or pissed and torn about her emotions. She shouldn’t have invited him to the party and was ashamed for feeling that way. She was glad he’d been a hit but was also afraid things would never be the same between them now that he’d had a taste of being wanted by people others considered cool. Color her completely screwed up. “I’m good, thanks. Is Van Gogh there?”
“He’s inking a customer in the window, his least fave place. Want me to blow him a kiss for you? Lift his spirits?”
Clover brightened, grateful the shy, socially awkward guy she adored had returned. Hyperactive V, who’d talked nonstop about himself without asking if she’d had a good time or made any contacts for her jewelry, had been nothing more than a passing nightmare. “Hope he’s not too bummed.”
“You know Van Gogh. Then again… Holy shit, he’s actually laughing and talking, too. Wait. He’s posing for the groupies outside.”
Clover’s stomach fell. “Peaches, Trinity, and Shell? How about the one with red hair and the other with Cleopatra bangs? Are they also at the parlor?”
“Haven’t a clue. Who are you talking about?”
“People we know. Or he does. One’s six-four in heels. And no way does she look like J-Lo. More like America Ferrera before she lost her braces in Ugly Betty. The other one might be wearing leather short-shorts and gladiator shoes. Then again, they might be in string bikinis. You see anyone like that?”
Jasmina laughed. “Hope not. The people outside are middle-aged. Nice, I’m sure, but not showing too much skin, thank goodness.”
“And he’s actually smiling?”
“Talking too, like he never has. What happened? Is he hooked on Red Bull?”
He’d gained confidence, and Clover had resented it. What a shitty girlfriend she was. If everyone had flattered her at the party instead of walking past her as they would a potted plant, Van Gogh would have cheered her on. Envy over his career and jealousy about the other women wasn’t her style. She was better than that. “He’s happy. Don’t you dare make fun or put him down.”
“Uh, why would I? Better still, what happened between you guys to bring on this sudden change in him? You moving in together? He proposed? You accepted?” She lowered her voice. “Did you find out you’re not pregnant when you thought you might be and you’re both relieved?”
“We haven’t faced that issue. Have you and your guys?”
“Nope. Lauren might be preggers, though. She’s glowing the same way she did when Molly was on the way.”
“Cool.” Molly was a cute kid and deserved a sister or brother. “When does Van Gogh get off tonight?”
